Wolf and Dog
by Tarja the wind witch
Summary: Futurefic. Returned from Braavos, Arya wants nothing more than enlist her sister in revenge. After searching for her for years, Sandor only wants Sansa's love. But Sansa has changed too much for them. What are a wolf and a dog supposed to do? Ar/San
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters. They are GRR Martin's. I just play with them. The guards (poor things) and the tavern maid are mine, however.

This was inspired by a friend's remark about how unrealistic it would be if the maiden fair got hooked up with the brutish stalker at the end. They would have nothing to talk about, she said, and in the long run it would not work. She isn't, as you can understand, a San/San fan.  
>I confess that I am, instead, but her remarks made me think and I came up with this. What if Sansa sided completely with Littlefinger, becoming not only instrumental in his schemes, but an active player in the Game of Thrones and shedding her naivete? What if post-Braavos-Arya and Sandor got very disapponted by the change and were on the run again?<br>This is what came out of it, a Sansa/Littlefinger Older!Arya/Sandor futurefic.

It has started as a one-shot, but it might well become a series with at least a Sansa/Petyr chapter.

WARNING: minor violence (it's Arya and Sandor, after all) and lemon. You have been warned!

No flaming. Flames will be used for heating on cold nights.

Enjoy!

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><p>After five years living in warm Braavos, beyond the Narrow Sea, Arya had almost forgotten how cold Westeros could be. At least the tavern was warm, a bit muggy, and it was not raining inside, while having a stroll outside would amount almost to having a bath.<br>Arya, still under the guise of a young knight, her short, brown hair dyed black with indigo, ordered some wine, sat herself at a table in the corner and observed.  
>The Vale was still all abuzz with the news of the reappearance of Sansa and of her marriage to Harold Harding, also known as Harry the Heir. The patrons talked loudly among raucous laughter, making rude comments on the beauty of the bride and on the sheer luck of young Harry, who was not only going to get a pretty wench for his bed, but also Winterfell as a bonus. More subdued talk went on about the Queen at the Wall and about the huge battle between her army of savages and easterlings and Stannis' knights. Wild rumour had already spread far, about dark magic and dragons. They said that the Queen was the most beautiful woman in the world and had bewitched the Lord Commander of the Wall into siding with her. Arya chuckled; if the rumours about the Others were true, Jon was only wise to side with her. Dragons meant fire and fire meant trouble for the icy bastards.<br>A plump young maid brought her wine. Her gaze lingered for more than necessary and her hand briefly touched Arya's. She scoffed inwardly but remained silent. It was not the first time women flirted with her male guise. They saw a flat-chested, slim figure with short hair, severe features, fine male clothes and a sword and automatically thought "young sir", which made her a target for their attention and made her laugh inwardly, thinking about the lesson first taught to her by the Hound and then, to exhaustion, at the temple: people only see what they expect to see. If they looked closely, they would notice her slightly too-wide hips, her subtly feminine features, but they didn't go past the first impression, which was fine for her. It made her life easier.  
>The door to the tavern opened, letting in a gust of fierce wind and some rain, along with a drenched commoner, hood drawn over his eyes. There was something strange about this man, Arya readily noticed: the man was extremely tall and broad-shouldered, but he hunched over and tried to appear smaller than he was and his whole demeanour tried to suggest that he could easily be overlooked. That was why Arya was scrutinizing him so in-depth. People who wanted to go unnoticed were usually planning something weird, she knew it by experience. He limped, she also noticed, and she had the expression that he exaggerated the limp greatly to hide an otherwise predatory way of moving. Even inside the tavern, he had not thrown back the hood, yet, but in its shadows she could catch the glimpse of pale eyes, darting all over the place and examining room and customers alike.<br>The gaze of the stranger set on her and he startled, grey eyes locking on grey eyes. "It couldn't be - Arya thought distantly – He's dead, I've left him to die years ago…"  
>The stranger traversed the room purposefully, forgetting to limp, and seated himself at her table, next to her, back to the wall. Old habits die hard, she thought.<br>"You have grown up, wolfing. – he said and if she had had any more doubts about his identity, the nickname and his raspy voice would have dissipated them – I thought you dead in Saltpans sack."  
>"And I thought you dead near the Trident. – she retorted, sipping her wine and looking him in the eye – I guess we're even." She shrugged and handed the cup over to him. He nodded in thanks and downed a gulp.<br>"Here to see your sister, I guess." he said, setting the cup down on the table with a thud. Arya nodded, pensive. The meeting with her sister had not gone as planned. "She said she's not interested, didn't she?" he asked, taking another gulp of wine and chuckling darkly. Despite herself, Arya nodded again. "Damn!" she thought, the Hound was way too observant for comfort.  
>"Let me guess, you proposed her some revenge scheme and she said that this was not the right time for petty vengeances." he continued and Arya felt the impulse of drawing one of her dirks. Sandor was lightning quick and pinned her hand to the table, chuckling. She tried to reach another knife with her other hand, but he grasped it, effectively trapping her. "Damn! Did you spy on us?" she hissed, struggling to break free of his iron grasp. Sandor chuckled again. "There is no need. I remember a girl who had a killing list she repeated like a mantra. If she returned after years of absence, what would she ask of a sister, if not revenge?" he said with an amused, lopsided grin. "And as for the reply, I have seen her and I know what she has become…" he trailed, sadly.<br>Arya nodded. "I always forget that you are smarter than you appear…" she said, shrugging.  
>Sandor laughed bitterly. "Since I look like a brick shithouse with peeling paint, it would be harder looking less smart." he retorted, grinning.<br>Despite herself and despite the fact that he was still holding her captive effortlessly, Arya laughed with him. That was a neat example of humorous self-deprecation.  
>"Am I still on your killing list?" he inquired calmly.<br>"Always." she deadpanned.  
>"Are you going to kill me in the next few minutes?" he continued.<br>"Probably not, why?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.  
>"Because I feel like I need a drink, and it would be hard to get it with both hands occupied." he replied.<br>Arya acquiesced. "Try not to do a repeat performance of last time…" she said, scowling.  
>Sandor laughed again, without real merriment, and let her go, pouring more wine into the cup and drinking deeply. Arya resisted the urge to rub her wrists but gave him a black look nonetheless. "There goes my wine…" she sighed.<br>"Aren't you a bit young for it?" he asked harshly.  
>"I'm sixteen, for the gods 'sake." she relied, rolling her eyes.<br>He didn't reply, but, looked pensive and melancholy and also a bit angry. The ruined corner of his mouth twitched a bit and that was never a good sign. He said that he had seen her sister, but from the look of things his meeting with her didn't go as planned as well. "Oh Sansa, Sansa dear. What has become of you? A high lady, playing the game of thrones, who has no kindness for family or bitter wannabe lovers." she mused.  
>They remained there, sitting at the table silently, him drinking and her thinking, for long moments. The silence was not uncomfortable and it felt good having someone she knew beside her,it made her feel less alone, even if it was the Hound. She could have worse for company.<br>The door of the tavern slammed open again, letting in five guards bearing the insignia of the Arryn. Fully armed, they didn't look like they were in for a drink. Their eyes searched the crowd, scanning it and alighted on the pair of them. The probable captain pointed his finger at them and bellowed some order to his men. "Fuck!" she heard Sandor whisper, setting the cup down. "What have you done already?" he asked, standing up, hand running to the handle of his woodcutter axe.  
>" What have <span>you <span>done? – she retorted, getting to her feet - Littlefinger must have recognized one or both of us, the wanker." Arya cursed and let fly two of her dirks. Two of the guards fell to the floor, clutching uselessly at the handles protruding from their throats. The tavern fell into complete chaos, the patrons trying to escape from the worst of it, hiding under tables, hugging the walls and yelling curses, leaving a wide berth to the fighters. The guards charged and Sandor met them with a charge of his own, bellowing an inarticulate war cry. Fearing a repetition of the last time, Arya drew Needle and joined the fray. Her foot busted the kneecap of the man on the left, making him stumble and curse, then her sword, driven point first under his collarbone, silenced his cries. Meanwhile, Sandor was facing the two remaining opponents without excessive difficulty. A massive fist connected with a guard's face, throwing the poor sod sprawling to the floor. The second guard got a slash to a leg and another to his ribs and crumpled. "Why didn't you kill them?" she asked, a bit bewildered, retrieving her dirks from the corpses. "They are just doing their job. – he shrugged, sheathing his sword – We'd better move, there might be more coming." Arya nodded and ran to the door, followed by him. They both got assaulted by rain and wind as soon as they set a foot outside.  
>They ran to the stables. Another well-aimed punch sent the stable-boy to oblivion, sprawling onto the soiled hay. Arya paid him no heed and saddled her mare as fast as possible without being sloppy. The mare cantered out of the stables. The Hound was already there, hood down and long hair plastered on his face, on a pitch black stallion. "Stranger!" she thought, recognizing the familiar, mean-tempered animal. It was almost like turning back time to so many years ago, to their flight through the Trident after the Red Wedding.<br>From the end of the village came the noise of yelled orders, barely audible over the rain. Arya and Sandor exchanged a quick look then spurred their horses into a gallop. "This way!" Sandor pointed, riding in front. In the darkness and under the pouring, freezing rain, it was hard to tell how many guards were following them, but they were a bit too many for Arya's tastes. She hoped to god that the Hound knew where he was going and chuckled to herself. Once again she was putting her safety and life in his hands. Granted, so many years ago she didn't have any choice in the matter, but now she had. She could bloody well turn her horse another way and fend for herself, she know she could make it, but she was tired of being alone, tired of clinging to memories to remind her that she was someone, Arya, not No-One as she had been in the temple. She needed a pack and she wasn't going to be picky about it. A feral dog was pretty much like a wolf, after all. She was going to stick with him, at least for a while, at least until they shook off Littlefinger's men.  
>The Hound seemed to know what he was doing, because the voices and the hoof beats were receding in the distance. The rain and the chilling wind, which tormented them, were also hindering their pursuers; still, they rode hard for a night and half of the following day before stopping. The downpour had abated into an annoying, frigid drizzle, but the wind had not and it was still harrying them. Both humans and horses were exhausted and half-frozen.<br>"We need to stop." said Arya, who felt like she was going to fall off the horse from sheer exhaustion. "Aye. –acquiesced Sandor, who didn't look like he was faring any better –Let's find some shelter. Blasted rain… There should be a cavern, somewhere near."  
>As it was, the cavern was some miles away. Sandor looked vaguely apologetic, he must have lost his bearings during the headlong flight in the darkness.<br>Arya slid from the horse quite ungracefully, her legs barely supporting her. At least the cavern walls sheltered them from the wind, but they needed a fire. Fortunately, it looked like the cavern had been used recently as a shelter for shepherds or maybe bandits and a stash of dry-ish wood was piled against one of the walls. It would have been hell to light any wood found in the forest, after the downpour.  
>Arya exchanged a quick glance with Sandor, who was busy unsaddling Stranger. She knew he was not comfortable near any kind of fire, so she set out to light theirs herself. It would be some time before it gave any significant warmth, but it was better than nothing. Still, she was shivering and drenched to the bone, so it was not much of an improvement.<br>Sandor retrieved his saddle-bags and flopped to the ground beside her, within touching distance, but as far as possible from the fire without being unreasonably distant. "Fucking Littlefinger. - he cursed – Someone must have denounced one of us."  
>Arya shivered. "Not necessarily. – she said, her voice clipped by her efforts to keep her teeth from rattling – He might have spotted one of us on his own. You are not exactly inconspicuous."<br>Sandor shook his head and laughed. "You think you aren't, wolfing? It took me less than a minute to figure you out. You haven't changed a bit."  
>Arya gave him a hard stare, as she had countless time during their previous escapade.<br>"See, that's what I said. If looks could kill…" he said.  
>"I can kill now." she retorted, piqued. She would not be treated like a kid.<br>He snorted. "As if you couldn't kill back then… - he commented, then turned and locked stares with her – Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?" The point-blank question and the smouldering gaze which came with it unsettled Arya. "I do not know. – she answered, after a moment – I just couldn't. I do not even think I thought you deserved a slow death. As kidnappers go, you were pretty caring, in your way, at least you didn't let me starve."  
>"You must have seen some interesting shit, in these years." he said, averting his gaze. There was a quite long pause the he added in an undertone, as if he was not sure he wanted to be heard: "Sometimes I still think I'd have been better off if you killed me…"<br>Arya remained silent, hugging herself to gather more warmth and shivering almost uncontrollably.  
>"You must take off the wet clothes, otherwise you will get even colder." Sandor volunteered after a few minutes, breaking the silence.<br>"If I had to get all the wet clothes off, I'd remain as naked as on my name day." she retorted, irritated, but proceeded to shed her cape and jerkin. Her shirt was also sopping wet, but she didn't feel like taking it off, the same for her trousers. She would still have her under-things and the bandages that helped her pass for a boy wrapped around her chest, but she was not comfortable about it. Alaya, Lya and red-haired Maryna, her courtesan-personas had no qualms in hanging naked around men, but she was not them, not for real, and she didn't know if she wanted to divest further in front of the Hound.  
>Apparently, he had no qualms about it and in a few moments most of his clothes were hanging near the fire, while he kept only his smallclothes. Physique-wise, he was much better off than the men involved in her jobs, even with all his scars. The one on his leg, memento of the wound that had almost killed him the last time she saw him, was almost as bad as his facial scars; it was surprising that he limped so little. Arya caught herself staring a bit too late, when he coughed pointedly. Blushing to the ears, she averted her gaze and he laughed bitterly, in that familiar, barking way.<br>Arya felt peeved and kept shivering. Blasted shirt! Blasted trousers! The alternative was between forsaking her modesty and freezing to death… Not a hard choice. "If you so much look at me, I'll tear your eyes out." she menaced, taking the offending clothes off and placing them near the fire. It was still cold but at least she was not damp anymore.  
>"You know, – he said softly – this is the most clothes a woman has ever voluntarily shed in front of me…". His voice sounded wistful, but he was as gentlemanly as possible, gaze locked onto a stone in the opposite wall.<br>"Not even Sansa?" she asked, curious.  
>Sandor barked another bitter laugh. "The only time I saw her unclothed, it was because Joffrey wanted to punish her. – he said bitterly - There was nothing real between me and your sister and there will never be." This time, his voice was definitely wistful and his eyes were downcast. His whole posture spoke of sadness, anger and defeat.<br>Arya would have inquired, but there was no need. "It took me almost a year to get back to almost normal, after the monks rescued me, and I kept thinking of her, that I should have acted differently, that I should have told her and when I knew that she was lost, that she was in King's Landing no more, I left the monastery. – words flowed freely, tinged with bitterness and regret - I've been searching for her for the last four years, almost, posing as some religious sod who vowed never to take off a sodding mask. If she's still in Westeros, I told myself, I'll find her. And after all these years, she surfaces and she is already married to some stuck up boy. – Sandor shook his head – And when I get to see her…" He paused, still shaking his head slowly, hugging is knees to his chest.  
>"What happened?" she prodded in a gentle voice.<br>"She is changed. – he said softly – She is not an irritatingly naïve little bird anymore, she is a lady and a schemer. I could stand her fear, I could accept it, but not the calculating gaze, not the sensation that she was trying to find out the better way to use me for her own ends."  
>Arya nodded silently, she had had the same feeling when she met her sister and it gave her the creeps. Now that she thought of it, it might bloody well have been her to denounce them to Littlefinger. Two loose cannons at large, with their own agenda; she might have found it too dangerous.<br>"I laid my heart at her feet and she was going to use it as a tool. – he continued his voice thickening, with tears? – She would have pretended to love me, maybe, but if I wanted pretension, I would have stuck to whores."  
>Arya felt a surge of pity towards him. He had loved her enough to think of her last when he thought he was dying, only to have his love crushed so.<br>She extended a hand towards him and patted his shoulder comfortingly. "It is not our fault, Sandor. She is Littlefinger's now, not ours, not anymore." she said, noticing only afterwards that she had called him by his given name.  
>Sandor sobbed once, a dry heaving sob. "What is my purpose now? – he asked burying his face in his hands – I lived to kill Gregor, but he is dead, and not by my hands. I tried to live for her, but she… she will consider me just as long as I am useful and then discard me. What am I to do now? You should have killed me, wolfing."<br>Arya rubbed his shoulder again, unable to find words to comfort him, so she changed subject. "Your face… It was Gregor, wasn't he?" she asked, unthinking.  
>Sandor stopped sobbing and turned to face her. "How do you know?" he asked her, wide-eyed. "Did Sansa tell you?"<br>Arya shrugged and shook her head in denial. "Every time you mention killing him, you unconsciously raise a hand to your face. It must have been a long time ago, the scars look old…" she commented.  
>Sandor blinked and shook his head, frowning. "It was. – he replied, then paused, eyeing her with wonder – How can you be so neutral about that? Most people are disgusted." he asked, incredulous.<br>Arya shrugged again. "Scars are scars. There are more disgusting things about a man. Their actions, for example. Their treasons, their lies." she retorted angrily, thinking about the Freys and some of her victims in Braavos.  
>"I am not a good person." he said, somewhat defensively, as if being bad was both a shield and an armour against the world.<br>Arya laughed. "You are short-tempered and bitter and you enjoy fighting, but there are things you won't do. – she said with a soft smile – They peg you as the villain because of the way you look, but you are not such a bad person. You are not your brother, you are not Frey, you are not bad…"  
>Sandor looked at her wonderingly. "You must be a very special person, Arya Stark, to think so…" he said softly. He had called her by her name, she noticed. He looked very lonely and vulnerable, which was weird for one like him, but was true. He reminded her of a half-wolf dog she saw in the residence of a victim in Braavos, kept as a guard dog, too feral to be allowed inside, but tame enough to want it.<br>Just like her. They were so much alike, in so many ways: both bitter and resentful towards the world, both convinced that they were better off alone, but plagued by loneliness, both fighting against the universe at large, both chucking the chains of their masters and finding themselves frightened by freedom.  
>They were still looking each other in the eye, grey on grey, and in his gaze Arya saw his loneliness, saw that he wanted to be rescued, to be given purpose, but was too proud and inured to rejection to dare ask.<br>Afterwards, she could never tell on what impulse she acted, only that it seemed the right thing to do. She leaned forwards and kissed him fully on the lips, hard and passionate. He made a surprised sound and tried to back away, but she threaded her hands into his long, still-wet hair and kept him in place, deepening the kiss, stroking his lips with her tongue and nibbling gently, until, uttering a low, hopeless sound, he returned the kiss as fiercely, putting an arm around her waist and the other hand into her hair and pulling her close to him. Arya profited from the moment and removed her hands from his hair, only to start caressing his face gently, both the good, gauntly handsome side and the ruined one. He shivered, broke the kiss and held her hand against his face with one of his. "What are you doing, Arya Stark?" he asked softly, eyes already a bit unfocused and full of soft wonder.  
>"I am kissing you, I thought it was clear." she whispered against his lips and peppered kisses on his face and neck. Eyes closed, head thrown back, he looked like he was enjoying it and, since he uttered no more protests, Arya's lips moved further down, to cover his chest in playful nips and kisses. He groaned helplessly when she lightly bit one of his nipples and it sounded suspiciously like her name. She smiled against his skin, smooth and warm, she was thoroughly enjoying herself and the best was yet to come. She kissed her way down on his tightly muscled abdomen and felt him tense minutely when she tried to remove his smallclothes, but every protest was quelled when she wrapped her hand around his manhood through the fabric. He moaned and leaned back, letting her pull the garment down. Arya smiled playfully to herself, his eyes were closed in rapture, so he did not notice, and dipped her head down to lick at the tip of him. This time, she was sure she heard her name moaned loudly with a tinge of amazement. She smiled again, wickedly and this time he saw it, propped on his elbows and looking down at her as he was. Not in the least discomfited by his wild-eyed, unfocused gaze, but enticed by it, she dipped her head down again and took him in her mouth as deep as she could. "Oh, fuck!" he cried, one hand tightening in her hair. Raising her head momentarily, Arya grinned." In a minute…" she said playfully and returned to business. For the first time in her life, she was actually grateful towards her former masters for forcing her to pose as a courtesan: she was glad of being experienced in the field and for the first time she was actually aroused by what she was doing. There was no pretending in this, she was enticed and not disgusted or annoyed by his pleasure sounds, by the wild bucking of his hips, by his hand tightening on her short hair. With one last lick, she released him and, unheeding his soft sounds of protest, she removed her last clothes and straddled his hips. He was so far gone that he only noticed it when she rubbed her womanhood against him. He looked at her with awe and lust and struggled to sit up and lock his lips with hers in a fierce kiss.<br>"You do not have to do it." he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers.  
>"I want to." she replied and guiding him with a hand, lowered herself upon him, taking him fully and starting to rock and grind her hips against his while his lips trailed fiery kisses on her neck and shoulders and his hands tightened on her hips. Arya had never felt such a deliriously sweet pleasure as when his lips locked on her breast. She moaned and cooed, rocking harder and burying her hands again into his hair. She closed her eyes; flashes of silver and gold started to flicker under her eyelids as he bucked against her, breathing harshly, cupping her face in his large hands and leaning again his sweaty forehead against hers. She opened her eyes briefly and gazed into his, seeing desire and wonder and gratitude, no more loneliness, no more despair. She rocked harder, sliding herself onto him as fast and hard as she could once, twice, three times and felt herself tense and then release hard, sobbing his name in a fit of agonizing pleasure, digging her fingernails in his arms. As if her release triggered his, he followed suit into oblivion, roaring his pleasure and filling her with heat.<br>They held on to each other for long moments, panting and sweaty despite the freezing cold, unwilling to break the contact. It felt like a dream and neither wanted to wake up.  
>Arya was the first to talk. "My legs are cramping. – she said apologetically – I have to get off you." He just nodded, as if he didn't trust his voice, and hissed when he felt her withdrawing. She didn't move far at all, resting her head on his chest and snuggling close to him. It was starting to feel cold again, but she didn't want to put her clothes back on just now. It had felt so good and lying there like this felt sweet and almost as good. Sandor was warm and he held her close enough that she could hear his heart beating. She had never lain in anyone's arms like this before, feeling sleepy and wanting nothing better than to relax. She felt safe, she realized with a start. As if on cue, she also started to shiver with cold.<br>"We'll end up freezing…" Sandor said, voice raspier than usual. Gently, he disentangled himself from her and walked unsteadily to his saddlebags, retrieving his bedroll and blanket. He walked back towards her and wordlessly unrolled both on the floor. "This might be better." he said softly, eyeing her expectantly, as if he thought that she might refuse. Arya smiled and lay on the bedroll, tugging the blanket over her but leaving enough space for him to lie beside her. With a grateful smile, he slid in place and they resumed their previous positions, the shivers slowly receding as the heat of their bodies warmed the bedding.  
>"It was not the first time you did this." Sandor said softly, idly trailing a hand on her back.<br>"In a way, it was." Arya answered sleepily. She turned her face towards his and saw him quirk an eyebrow questioningly. Arya sighed, he had the right to know. "I have been in Braavos this last five years, training as an assassin in a sect. I performed several jobs for them in the last two years, after being deemed adequately trained. – she explained and could see perplexity on his face – Three of those were so-called Yudit jobs, from the name of some wench who did the trick on a Valyrian general. I pretended to be a courtesan, screwed them and killed them in their sleep, but it was not really me doing the screwing, not for real." Sandor seemed still quite perplexed at her remark. "It was not really you? How so?" he asked, but his voice had no hint of reproach and he made no move to reject her, upon the contrary, he hugged her tighter.  
>"Between jobs, we had no real identity, we had to forget what we were, where we came from, our names, everything. We had an identity, false of course, only when we were killing or preparing to kill. We were transformed into someone, changed hair colour, manners, accent, everything. – she said bitterly, shivering lightly at the thought – So it was not Arya Stark who did the fucking, but raven-haired Alaya, or sweet, shy, Lyseni Lya, or red-head Maryna. I had no choice in it, I did it because I had to." She propped herself on an elbow and looked him in the eye. "This was the first time I chose to do it, you are the first man I chose to screw because I wanted it." she said solemnly and saw his eyes fill up with some soft and gentle emotion. He kissed her gently and yet, somehow, the kiss filled her with yearning and left her breathless. "You are amazing, Arya." he said softly against her lips. She didn't say anything, just snuggled closer, burying her nose in his neck. She felt herself drifting, feeling safe and warm and happy.<br>"Arya?" he said sleepily after a few moments, tearing her away from the threshold of sleep.  
>She grunted something like "Wassup?"<br>"Am I still on your killing list?" he asked.  
>"Of course not. But you might return there if you wake me up again." she retorted, stroking his cheek.<br>"Good. – he rumbled – I was a bit worried about Yudit jobs and the like."  
>Arya slapped him playfully, snuggled as close as possible and felt his chest move in a silent laugh. She drifted contentedly into sleep.<p>

Upon waking up, Arya was assaulted by the unfamiliar feeling of being held close by strong arms against a naked body. For a second, she struggled, not quite remembering how she had ended up like this, before the events of the previous night crashed to the surface of her mind.  
>"Good morning." Sandor said softly, releasing her from his embrace and sitting up. Arya half-sat among the covers, combing her hair with her hands and rubbing her eyes sleepily. "Good morning." she replied, unsure. It was not that she was not sure if it was a good morning, because it was, she just didn't know how she was supposed to behave the morning after. If it was morning at all, after all… She had no idea of how long they slept. The rain seemed to have ceased and the fire she had lit had burned to cinders. They must have been out of it for hours.<br>Arya stood up and gathered her discarded clothes, throwing his back to him. He was shamelessly looking at her naked form, not lewdly or possessively, but almost with awe. "We'd better keep moving. – she said trying to hide her blush – Littlefinger's men might still try to get us."  
>Sandor nodded and pulled his trousers on. Arya felt a slight pang of regret at the sight, but said nothing. They dressed up in silence and re-saddled the horses. Arya would have liked nothing better than to know what to say, to break this silence, but she didn't know how. She had never slept with a man before.<br>They had already been riding for almost an hour, eating their breakfast in the saddle, when he spoke. "Arya, I do not know how to say it, I've never been with any woman apart from whores before… – he said, blushing like mad – I… I feel honoured that you decided to do what you did with me. It means much to me."  
>Arya felt again the now-familiar rush of sentiment towards him and tried to put everything she felt in her smile. "It would be my pleasure to do it again, if you stick with me." she said impishly and was rewarded with an absolutely endearing disbelieving stare. Arya laughed softly. She didn't know why she was proposing this to him, not rationally, but it had been too amazing to let it be just a one-off. Besides, she would need backup to do what she was planning to do and he needed a purpose, before he holed himself up in a monastery or something equally silly.<br>It took him a moment to recompose himself, but, when he finally managed, he was smiling gently. "I gather that you have a long-term plan, then…" he said almost playfully and surely more lightly than she ever heard him speak.  
>Arya nodded. "I am officially married to Ramsay Snow, the sodding bastard who killed my brothers and destroyed my home. I have never met him, he must have kidnapped some suitable substitute, but that's beside the point...– she explained – I am going to make myself a widow and for this I will need your help."<br>Sandor nodded in approval. "And then?" he asked.  
>Arya pondered it a bit. "And then we'll go to the Wall. I want to meet Jon and that Targaryaen Queen of his. She might just be the right person to get rid of the Lannisters and their allies."<br>"The Wall? – he said, uncomfortably – There are dragons there."  
>Arya nodded, seriously, trying to make absolutely clear that she was not mocking him about his fear of fire. "Aye. Better to have them as allies than as foes, isn't it?" she replied, hoping that this didn't make him change idea.<br>Sandor nodded. "Aye. – he said and paused, as if deep in thought – I like your plan, Arya Stark. I think you will have to bear with my presence for a while." he said smiling.  
>Arya felt almost giddy with relief at his words. She nudged her mare near Stranger and leaned over to kiss him. "I was counting on it." she said, smiling against his lips.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters. They are GRR Martin's. I just play with them.

Sansa/Petyr-centric chapter, focused on Sansa's alternate character development into a Machiavellian lady.

WARNING: mild adult themes. 

Flames will be used to roast rabbits.

Enjoy!

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><p>For all the past five years, Sansa had known that as soon as Sweetrobin's conditions worsened, she would shed her Alayne disguise and retake her real identity. She had also known that she would have to marry Harry the Heir and she had all the time to get used to the idea. Petyr's plan was flawless, as usual. It only required a small amount of cooperation from her part. Well, not so small since it entailed being bedded by said over-enthusiastic, brawny youth.<br>Sansa endured, it was for a higher cause, even if the boy was as delicate as an aurochs. she was secretly delighted by the fact that her husband seemed to be even more unsubtle than she first thought, all taken up by dreams of military glory and totally blind to more subtle duels of diplomacy and economy. He was likely to overlook her and to call her a silly dear when she spoke to him. All the better for her. If he thought her a fool, and she was very careful to simper like a little bird in his presence, he was all the more likely to leave her in peace and free to attend more serious business. The long years of experience in being an utter fool, a victim in the hands of anyone who wanted, have left her as a legacy the ability of crying very easily and a look of utter innocence. She could still play the maiden in distress pretty well, but she had developed a steel backbone, a sharp wit and an acute understanding of politic, all thanks to Petyr. Some days she mused about what would have happened if she ran away with the Hound and she didn't like it at all. She would still have been everyone's victim, only with a brawny man to defend her. She shook her head. No, she was better off like this, with a brawny youth as an absentee husband and an intelligent man as a partner.  
>A mere week after the marriage, inebriated with dreams of victory and glory, Harry left for the van again. He had to show the Lannisters and those bloody rebels in the Riverlands that no one discounted the might of the Arryn, he said.<br>Sansa hoped to the gods that he didn't let himself be killed like the idiot he was. Not that she loved him, upon the contrary, she was all the more happy if he was not around, but if he died just now, without giving her a child first, her claim on the Vale would be shaky at best.  
>Fortunately, Petyr had thought about this problem and saddled the youth with a hand-picked retinue of his paid men, among which the principal was ser Lyn Corbray.<br>The very day Harry left for the van, Petyr came to her. Before her marriage, they had only exchanged kisses and caresses, every time more heated and daring than the last, more tortured and frustrating, but they had never truly made love. She had to be a maiden for her marriage, but now that this requirement had expired, they could finally have each other as it was meant to be.  
>It was so different from her husband's mindless and animalistic rutting... Petyr was much gentler and caring, he minded of her pleasure as well as his and in his arms Sansa felt like a goddess, not just a piece of young, tender meat to be screwed. Afterwards, they had taken the habit of discussing the most important events while still lying naked in bed. It was comforting to be wrapped in his slim arms and to exchange witticisms and information, to be able to admire such a sharp mind at work. Sansa was no simpleton, not anymore, but she felt like she was not yet in his league. She will learn, he will teach her to be his perfect partner in that complicate game of theirs. This willingness to help, to teach her, this caring for her development was one of the reasons why she loved him so much.<p>

She had taken to meet petitioners, after the marriage. She and Petyr had agreed that it would be the perfect way to project an outward impression of caring and justice and at the same time feel the populace's pulse. It was an annoying but necessary parade. Most were happy with a communal hearing, but some requested a private audience. Usually those were the most interesting or the most annoying. Among the private petitioners, the previous day, she had the two biggest surprises of her life, first her not-so-lovely sister Arya and the supposedly-dead Hound.  
>Her sister had not changed a bit in the intervening years. She was tall and thin as a blade, face long and austere. Even with her hair dyed black and dressed as a young knight, Sansa had readily recognized her. Her angry expression was still the same. She had a lot of nerve: she had to admit it, coming to her with a hare-brained, ill-conceived, rash revenge plan, which entailed grouping the rebels in the Riverlands and in the North, the death of the Bastard of Bolton, Lannister's man in the North and possibly the wholesale slaughter of the Freys. Sansa and Petyr had no sympathy for either Boltons or Freys, but such a chain of events would upset possibly beyond repair the balance of power, which was the principal tool of their game. However, having Arya on their side would be beneficial. If it could be proven that she had never married Bolton, she could be used to strengthen their alliances, or, in the worst-case scenario, she could be employed as an assassin. Putting on her best loving-elder-sister face, she tried to explain her that it would not be possible, but that she would be happy to give her a place to stay, if she wanted. She was her sister after all. Somehow, Arya seemed to have read into her, and, putting up an angry tirade about her duties to her family, she turned tail and strode away, slamming the door behind her. Sansa shook her head. Her family was dead. She had no duty towards them, her only duty was to survive.<p>

Later on, that afternoon, she had another surprising visit.  
>Disguised as a commoner as he was, Sansa had not recognized the Hound until he threw back his hood, revealing the full extent of his burn scars.<br>He hadn't changed as well in those five years, only his eyes were less angry, more desperate.  
>She was not prepared to meet him, he was supposed to be dead, after all, and she was not prepared to hear a tormented, passionate, soppy confession of his love for her.<br>She must have faltered or her expression must have revealed something while her mind worked frantically to work out a way of maximizing the opportunities of this meeting. She didn't need another warrior brute in her life, she already had Harry, and she surely didn't need a lover, she already had all she could dream of in Petyr, but Sandor was a competent fighter, a leader even, and it would be much better to have him on their side than against them. If she had any feelings for him before, they had shrinked into nothingness since their last meeting and all she could muster was a vague pity. He must be truly naïve himself if he thought that she would drop everything to run away with him…  
>However, if she pretended to return his feelings but claimed that she couldn't betray her husband she could persuade him into staying and in time into working for her. She hoped to the gods she wouldn't have to continue the charade to the point of having to bed him… Petyr would be understanding of the reasons, but she already had all the violent fucking she could handle, thank you very much.<br>All of this happened inside her head in a split second, while she tried to keep her expression schooled into one of light amazement and innocent joy, but he didn't buy into her words of welcome or into her tormented expression while she expressed regret at marrying Harry or into anything she said. She was sure she had become a good liar, Petyr himself ahd complimented her in many occasions, but as she spoke she saw his face fill up with anger and mistrust.  
>"What has become of you, little bird?" he said softly.<br>"I have grown up, my lord." she answered in a neutral tone.  
>"Aye, that you have." he replied, giving her a slow, irritating, once-over, but his words were filled with sadness rather than lust and despite her best entreaties, she couldn't prevent him from walking away. "Great - she thought - what if, feeling spurred, he sides with the Lannisters again?"<br>She went to Petyr, fretting like a simpering maid, but, as usual, he had already noticed what tormented her.  
>"Your sister and the Hound have come to visit, haven't they?" he asked.<br>Sansa nodded.  
>"What did they want from you, my flower?" he asked, kissing her lightly but skilfully.<br>Tingling a bit from his kiss, Sansa carefully chose her words. "Arya wanted blood, the Boltons and the Freys, Sandor wanted me."  
>"Oh dear, - Petyr chuckled – people with simple needs are so refreshing… What did you tell them?"<br>Sansa blushed at her failure. "I tried to tell them what they wanted to hear, without committing myself to anything, but they didn't buy into it, neither of them." She lowered her head in shame, but Petyr's hand on her chin forced her to look up again, into his eyes.  
>"They say that wolves and dogs can smell lies. – he said, comfortingly -That makes them all the more dangerous. Well, if sweet words and entreaties didn't keep him here, maybe a force of soldiers will. We can't have two swashbucklers such as them running free to wreak merry havoc, can we? " he asked.<br>Sansa nodded. "We may not love the Freys, but we need them, at least some of them. - she reflected, smiling sweetly. After the death of Old Walder, Petyr had an easy time of enticing the Freys into his influence sphere. – And there is no telling what the Hound might do. I agree: it is better this way…"  
>Petyr kissed her softly again and started insinuating his hands into her neckline, gently caressing her breasts. Sansa moaned gently and let him explore her flesh. "It might be better to send a strong force, my lord…" she said huskily, unbuttoning his doublet and shirt.<br>"Yes… Better be safe than sorry, my lady…" he whispered, lowering his head to suck on her nipples.

That had been three days before. Now, Sansa lay awake in Petyr's arms once again, but both were tense. "They have escaped. – Petyr had said in a clipped tone, after some minutes of idle caresses – Three soldiers dead, two wounded, a headlong chase in the forest and no results. This is unnerving."  
>Sansa tried to soothe him, caressing his face gently. "They have teamed up together, I gather…" she whispered, rubbing her nose against his cheek.<br>Petyr hugged her and nodded, then chuckled. "That would be a grotesque couple if there is any…" he said, amused.  
>Sansa giggled. "Oh, Petyr, you can't mean it. He is still so besotted with me… And I do not think Arya will be ever mature enough to think of such things. She still acts as a tomboy."<br>Petyr returned to seriousness. "Adversity makes strange bedfellows, – he said – but yes, I do not think in that sense of the term. Still, now we have a bigger problem that we had anticipated." he mused.  
>Sansa acquiesced. "An experienced soldier and an assassin alone are trouble enough, but together…" she shivered lightly.<br>"They could have the right leverage to gather up a considerable force and attempt a coup against the Twins." continued Petyr, effectively completing her thoughts.  
>"There are bound to be followers of my late brother still around, who might rally around my sister." she went on.<br>"And Clegane is a smart enough fellow to guide them." he concluded.  
>Sansa shivered again and, regretfully, slid out of his embrace, donning her dress. "I will send a raven to the Twins – she sighed – saying that I have heard rumours of a planned assault on their forces and advising them to strengthen their defences."<br>Petyr rolled from the bed with a grimace, stepping on the cold floor. He nodded and placed a kiss on her still-uncovered shoulder, embracing her from behind. Sansa sighed. It would be nice to continue their little games, but there was business to be attended to.  
>He kissed her neck, biting lightly. "I will send more soldiers to comb the area. They can't have escaped too far away in a storm of those proportions..."<br>"From your mouth to the gods' ears…" whispered Sansa, turning in his arms to kiss him and promptly slipping away, off to her business.


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters. They are GRR Martin's. I just play with them.

Possibly fluffy in places. Cannot say anything, I'd spoiler you.

WARNING: citrus towards the end.

Flames will be used to light fireworks.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>They have been on the run for a week. A week of hard riding, companionable silence, easy banter and passionate sex. Sandor was still quite astonished by the events, but he was not going to complain.<br>Riding beside her, he didn't feel alone, even if they were silent most of the time, but when they talked, he felt as if she understood him better than anyone or at least as if she could accept what she didn't understand. He surely didn't understand everything about her. Her life had been full of surprises in the last years: assassins, magic, foreign places. She had grown up fast and had become hard as valyrian steel. Considering that she had been pretty hard to begin with, that was saying something. Tall and androgynous, lithe as her blade and fast as a cat, she was wonderful in her own way and he still didn't understand why she wanted to have any relationship with a piece of damaged goods such as he was. And yet every time they struck camp, they ended up having sex. Afterwards, he felt almost bad about it - wasn't he supposed to mourn about his shattered love? – but he couldn't say no, not when she gave herself to him spontaneously, as if she liked it as much as he did, and curled to sleep in his bedroll afterwards. He always took first watch and was content of watching her sleep with a half-smile on her face, almost peaceful. These were the times when the guilt became worst, when he tried to imagine how it would have been to watch Sansa sleep after they had made love, but couldn't, as if the dreams he had of her had evaporated at the dawning of the latest revelations. Right after their meeting, he had felt almost numb inside, as if the wound had been too deep, so deep that it wasn't even painful. Arya had made him feel again, anger and sadness first, then amazement and then…? Gratitude? Companionship? Friendship even? He couldn't name what he felt in her company, but it was good and comforting and it was enough.

They had long left the area he knew, but Arya seemed to always know which way to go to avoid their pursuers. "I dream I am a wolf, sometimes, – she would say, thoughtful – and in these dreams I see the guards on the prowl and I know where to go to shake them off." She couldn't explain herself better and felt a bit frustrated, but for him it was enough that it worked. As soon as they lost them completely he would feel safe enough for more thorough discussions of dreams. Now he was still wary and that was one of the reasons why he felt guilty about having sex with Arya. It was a hare-brained idea, to give in to such a distraction, he knew it, but he couldn't resist.  
>They had been riding since dawnbreak, silent as shadows in an eerily silent forest. Sandor knew that something was not right, he couldn't hear any approaching hoof beats, couldn't spot ant flanker, but he knew that they were being followed. He felt their eyes like prickles on his back and, by looking at his companion, tense, eyes darting everywhere, he knew that Arya was feeling it as well.<br>Leaves rustled to his left. Sandor cursed and his hand flew to the handle of his axe. More rustling, from behind, this time. "Damn!" he cursed. Arya instead, closed her eyes and lifted her head slightly, as if straining to hear something, some very soft-spoken voice. On her face there was a perplexingly serene smile. "Arya?" he called softly.  
>She opened her eyes; they were a bit unfocused and her expression was confused as if she was seeing something unexpected or not quite right. "Arya?" he called again, with a hint of worry.<br>As if on cue, the underbrushes rustled again, all over the place, birthing a motley pack of wolves. "Fuck!" he cursed, axe at ready, trying to keep Stanger calm. Arya's mare whinnied, terrified. They were thoroughly surrounded by the beasts. It would be a tight escape, Sandor thought, the the bushed parted again and an absolutely huge direwolf advanced towards them. Sandor cursed again. "That must be the alpha of the pack." he thought. Big as a small horse, mottled grey, with fierce golden eyes, the direwolf advanced stately, without a hint of fear. Direwolves were not supposed to live so far south, he thought distantly, one of those random pre-battle thoughts.  
>Suddenly, Arya jumped down from the saddle and advanced towards the wolf. "Arya!" he cried, ready to spur Stranger into a charge. If he was very competent and lucky, he could strike down the alpha and pick her up. If they were astonishingly lucky, they would manage to escape the rest of the pack. Whatever the consequences, he wouldn't let her die like this, in a fit of folly.<br>"Do not move, Sandor." was the astonishing reply, delivered in a calm and fearless tone. "Do not do anything. All will be well." Arya was directly in front of the alpha, now, a mere pace away. All was quiet in the forest, even the wolves seemed to be wholly engrossed in the show and had not moved from their places. Arya fell to her knees and tilted her head, exposing her throat to the beast. Sandor cursed, ready to pounce. "Do not move." came her voice, a bit strained.  
>The direwolf closed the distance, but Sandor didn't do anything, hoping desperately that she knew what she was doing. He didn't want to lose her, he realized.<br>The direwolf sniffed her calmly, taking its time. The tension was unbearable. Suddenly the beast pounced, Sandor cried out, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again Arya was lying on the forest floor, the wolf was on top of her.  
>Arya was laughing desperately, and the wolf was licking her face like an over-enthusiastic, over-sized dog.<br>Sandor felt like his jaw was going to fall from sheer astonishment.  
>"Oh, Nymeria, Nymeria!" Arya exclaimed, petting the enormous direwolf affectionately, while it wagged its tail. Sandor felt the tug of a distant memory. Arya used to have a pet wolf, the first time he saw her. the beast had attacked Joffrey, probably the kid deserved it, and he had been sent to capture her and a stable-boy, both accused of treason. The boy he had caught and inexcusably killed, the wolf had gone free and in compensation, the lion-bitch had killed Sansa's pup.<br>Arya looked happy, squeezing her long-lost companion and having her face washed by its long licks.  
>"Sandor, -she called, beckoning to him – come here."<br>"No way, wolfing. It might like you, but I'm not going to take chances." he replied, still tense. Plus, Arya's mare might have been terrified into freezing, but Stranger was likely to bolt to Gods-Know-Where.  
>Arya put on her most endearing mulish expression. "Are you afraid? – she asked – there is nothing to fear, I promise."<br>Sandor sighed and rolled his eyes. From a corner of the eye, he saw Arya talking into the wolf's ear and snickering, probably making some cutting remark about him.  
>he pointedly looked away, to the ragged circle of wolves, which seemed to be uninterested of what was going on in the center and were going on with their wolfish lives, grooming themselves, yawning and resting. Among the full-blooded wolves, Sandor distinguished some different shapes: farm dogs gone feral, probably and perhaps even hybrids, all lean and scarred and wild looking. The significance of such a sign was not lost on him.<br>Arya looked at him. From the glint in her eyes, she had noticed that he had notice. She smiled at him reassuringly. "Come here." she called again.  
>Sandor sighed again and dismounted, hoping to the gods that Stranger didn't try anything funny.<br>Wary, he advanced towards Arya and the wolf, stopping at a pace of distance. "There." said Arya, taking his hand in hers and guiding it to the wolf's head. Sandor almost froze in panic when his fingers touched the soft fur of the beast, fearing that it would revolt and bite his fingers off, but the animal, Nymeria he remembered, stood still, looking at him with too-intelligent golden eyes.  
>He had relaxed a fraction when suddenly the wolf pounced, sending him sprawling to the ground.<p>

It had been many seasons since Nymeria had felt that happy, a lifetime even, ever since the day she had bitten the yellow-haired two-legs lion-cub to defend Arya. She had wandered so long in search of her, so lonely. She had a pack of her own now and responsibilities as alpha, but she could never forget her own two-legs companion, with whom she shared dreams. She had missed her the first time, some seasons ago, when she was travelling with the tall, scarred two-legs, but she had no intentions of repeating the mistake.  
>Her Arya… She was a cub no more, but was old enough to bear cubs of her own. Too many seasons had passed, but she was still travelling with the same tall, scarred two-legs. He was her mate now, this was clear. They had mated enough times that their smells had all but mingled, she noticed, snorting lightly. It looked a good choice as any, this two-legs dog, he seemed strong and brave enough for her. They'd have strong wolf-dog cubs. Maybe not pretty, but strong.<br>It was amusing how wary he was of her, despite Arya's reassurances. Did he really think she would harm her companion's mate?  
>Nymeria pounced, sending the two-legs to the ground and started licking his face, wagging her tail playfully. The two-legs cursed and flailed a bit and Arya laughed like mad. Oh, she had missed her companion's laughter.<br>Satisfied by the outcome of the day, she withdrew from Arya's mate, leaving him to pick himself up from the ground.  
>"I will be around. – she communicated to Arya with an image of the forest around – Need to hunt. – an image of her pack hunting together - Call me if you need. Two-legs will not harm you. "<br>With this last image, of the eagle two-legs, Nymeria called her pack and withdrew into the forest.

Slowly, Sandor picked himself up from the ground. His face was sticky with wolf slobber, but he was otherwise unharmed. "I think she likes you…" teased Arya, still laughing.  
>"If you have any other surprise like this up your sleeve, tell me now, please." he replied, a bit annoyed, brushing leaves from his clothes and hair. He was still a bit ruffled, but it had been amazing, something out of legends.<br>"When you dream wolves, do you dream her?" he asked, pensively.  
>Arya nodded. "I think so. I think that in dreams our minds touch, somehow. – she said, shrugging – I think it happened again today, but while I was awake, a moment ago."<br>Sandor didn't say anything, pondering on half-remembered legends.  
>"Do you know what it means?" Arya asked, merrily.<br>"That you are a skinchanger?" Sandor retorted, sneering and wiping his face.  
>Arya laughed. "I guess that it would be a way of defining it. – she said, shrugging – But it was meaning that we don't need to go scouting anymore."<br>He quirked an eyebrow questioningly.  
>"They will do the scouting for us." she said, pointing her thumb towards the direction where the wolves disappeared to and grinning.<br>"That's good news." he admitted, grinning back.

They rode on for the rest of the day, in companionable silence, and struck camp in a clearing at nightfall, lighting a fire and quickly supping on dried meat and oatmeal porridge.  
>As in a concerted ritual, they washed their bowls in a nearby stream and set down the beddings. As it happened every time, he didn't know who initiated it, but as they were conversing about anything and nothing, about the strange, stupid deaths of war buddies and strangers, they found themselves into each other's arms, kissing, unlacing clothes, caressing. This time around, Sandor managed to remain on top and proceeded to kiss his way down along her body. She had smaller breasts than most, but she was still beautiful, all graceful limbs and toned muscles. He pulled her trousers down and started to gently touch her womanhood. He had found out that she liked it very much, enough to beg him not to stop, but he knew also that she liked being kissed down there even better, enough to beg him to stop because it was too much and not enough. It was torture, bringing her to such a point, when her whimpers and moans made him want nothing better than bury himself into her and fuck her until they both collapsed, but it was worth it.<br>"Please, please!" she cried, tossing her head on his bedroll, trembling and gripping his arms as they were a lifeline. "Please what?" he asked, his voice even more rough than usual, stroking her.  
>Arya whimpered and rolled her eyes. "You are horrible…" she moaned.<br>He stroked her again, harder, and she almost convulsed. "Alright! – she cried – Please, take me! Now!"  
>Sandor readily obliged her, entering her roughly, but she was so wet by now that it didn't really matter. He could take her as fast and hard as he wished, when she was like this and she would cry out in pure ecstasy, dragging her nails on his arms and back, thrusting against him as if would never be enough and pulling him into orgasm with her.<br>They lay side by side afterwards, half-dressed and exhausted. Arya lay her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest, and he couldn't help feeling a bit happy of being there, of being alive and with her. It was pretty cold, however, and it was mere minutes before they were freezing and had to put their clothes back on. "I'll take first watch again." he said, looking wistfully at her while she laced her trousers back on. He already missed the feel of her naked skin on his and the peace of sleeping with her, even if he had experienced it only once.  
>Arya grinned and slid into the bedroll. "You know, I have just realized another thing about the wolves." she said, beckoning him closer. He kneeled next to her and let her kiss him slowly, threading her slim hands in his hair. He would probably not confess it to her, unless she somehow managed to extract it from him, but he loved when she did that.<br>"I do not think we will have to keep watches. – she whispered against his lips – We can sleep together, if you wish. It is cold tonight." she offered as an excuse. Her lips nibbled at his neck and he involuntarily shivered.  
>"Aye, it is cold tonight." he repeated, keeping up the pretence. He looked at her in the eye and saw again that wonderful look of acceptance. Sighing, he slid under the blankets, embracing her. She leaned her head against his shoulder again, threading a long slim leg with his and placing a hand on his chest. He turned his head slightly, burying his nose in her hair. He liked her scent.<br>Sandor was asleep in minutes with a smile on his lips.


End file.
